Turtledoves
by DeathCadet
Summary: A Turtledove is a term adorned to a female thief who stole from the homes in which she worked." And a Gypsy is a term adorned to... well...
1. Prologue: Victoria

**Whatsup ? This is a story about (some of) our good friend, Clopin Trouillefou. First up, I'm going to stress SENSORY OVERLOAD aka I write a lot, a lot of descriptiony stuff but hey that's just how it goes. I guess this is more so a Prologue type deal to give you some background on my heroine here but Enjoy, or don't. I literally wrote this last night awaiting that 24 hour spam thing to stop so I could post and I'm not really sure how the guidelines and stuff work so..**

**Rated M because it might get sexy. Which is a good thing.**

"There, then. Making things look all nice and spruced up 'don that make a fine livin'?" The older lady wasn't exactly asking a question, so much as waddling off to tend to what sounded like a flock of screaming children. Which was sitting fine with me, as I wasn't exactly calculating an answer so much as shivering down to every article of dripping wet clothing I was wearing. It was march, and just passed snowing temperatures. It wasn't cold enough to snow, or warm enough to be remotley pleasant. It was stuck in that phase of heavy, wet rain that had been flooding the streets of Paris for the past five hours. Let me tell you something that I learned about Paris first hand, under the blanket of charm and romance lays a seedy mattress of filth and hatred that could _only _come from years of practice. And believe me, I would know. In an average week, I would say I wash about five households worth of linen. Are these the moral fibers of your city, Paris? Blood, saliva… dandruff… I've seen all the dirty laundry of almost every butcher, baker and candlestick maker in the city! Lady Nobility would be pulling "righteous" men to hell by the ankle if she had seen them herself. It makes me wonder who these "righteous" men are anyway, and where I could find them.

I stood in the hallway, dripping by the hem of my ridiculous blue linen dress and immediately was overwhelmed with the warm, unfamiliar smell of someone else's home. Being an orphan, I feel as though this is one human trait I have been deprived of my entire life; being able to walk into your flat after not having been there for weeks and know that you are right where you need to be. For a moment, I entered a state of complete fear, thinking I might have gone into the wrong home. It was just passed noon and I had already cleaned the homes of three other families. My hands were stiff and smelled of soap and dust and I was now officially soaked to the bone. As the footsteps of the older woman faded into the kitchen, a particularly cold raindrop slid down my spine and I sneezed at the exact same time. That's what happens when a downpour soaks into your bones, you get sick. Perfect. Just what I need.

I took off my soaking overcoat and hung it on the coat rack and then bent over to pick up my mop and bucket. Suddenly, something fell onto my back, something sharp jabbing into my neck and shoulders. I released a strange yelp or gasp like noise and turned around suddenly to see that the coat rack had completely capsized onto my back due to the heaviness of my soaking coat.

"OH blasted bugerness." I said, the weight of the coat rack forcing my hand into the bottom of my grimey bucket. Pushing the coat rack back up to its position and pulling my hand out of the god awful bucket of doom I noticed one of the more horrible men in Paris, and realized I was in fact in the right house simultaneously.

"Monsieur Desmarais!" My face froze into a position of complete terror as my eyes fell onto the hollowed, crow like features of Jacques Desmarais, who was leaning against his banister and smoking his pipe. His grey bushy mustache stretched between his cheeks in an amused smile. The twinkle that awkwardly fills his eyes every week when I come over twinkling away as he sized up my soaking body.  
"Bonjour mademoiselle Baylee." He smiled like a slimy garden toad that had just licked up a mouthful of flies. I winced slightly, and shuddered under my soaking wet garments, he noticed and smiled slightly harder. I hated the way French people said my name, like it was a joke or something. "You must be frozen! I insist you let your clothing dry in the basement, while you warm yourself by the furnace." He ashed his pipe onto the floor beneath him, just another something I would have to clean up later. The offer was enticing but something about not wearing my clothes in this man's basement was even more chilling than actually bearing through the next two hours in soaking wet garments. I forced on a smile and picked up my bucket.  
"It's barely a drizzle out sir." I turned the corner and headed away from him and towards the stairs to the basement as his glare practically burned a hole into my backside.

Disgusting display of testosterone. The minute I got to the furnace room I slammed the door shut and leaned by back against it, holding in a scream that would have caved their crooked shanty in on their dirty heads. I threw the bucket onto the floor and felt immediately better being in the small, hot room. I reached up into my underskirts and withdrew a large canvas bundle, which I kept at all times. It was tied together with a piece of string. Today it was particularly bursting with stolen artifacts from the array of houses I had cleaned for. I opened it up, nearly forgetting exactly what it is I took with me on this particular rainy day. A pocket watch, some candle holders, two golden chains, an dusty but expensive looking ring, a crystal paperweight, a roll of bread and what seemed to be a gorgeously engraved hand held mirror. I sat back on an empty crate, admiring the mirror and took a bite of the bread which was a little stale, but not stale enough to complain. I initially studied the fine detail on the back of the mirror before flipping it around and slightly shocking myself with my apperance. Granted, bread crumbs were exploding from my mouth and cascading down my chin and onto my dress. But it was really one of those moments where you forget exactly what you look like. Vanity cried out deep down inside of me and I put the bread roll on my lap, swallowed and held the mirror up to my face.

Green eyes? Check. Mouse brown hair? Check. Thirty-odd freckles across my nose? Check. Everything appeared to be in place, but something felt like it was missing. My hair, soaking wet was pulled into messy, _messy _bun at the back of my head and pieces fell casually around my face, dripping onto my cheek and dress. I frowned at myself, displeased. I often wondered where my traits had come from. What my mother and father looked like, whose nose I had, whose eyes I had. All I knew of for sure that my parents had given me was my name, Baylee. It was a pretty stupid name, but I liked that they had given it to me. I didn't like that they had dropped me off on the dirty doorstep of some orphanage though.

"What's wrong with you? Ever seen a brush before?" I was what the folks back in London would call a "Turtledove". A Turtledove is a term adorned to a female thief who stole from the homes in which she worked. Unfortunately, I don't believe the people of Paris have the same terminology or sense of humor that we have back in London so it was a term that went without honor amongst the street people of Paris. It was rare to come across people in my class who spoke a word of English, and god knows I only knew just enough French to avoid fights with my witch of a landlord and to bargain with the merchants in the market, so work, despite its risks and its depressing treasures was more or less the most interaction I could get in a day. I had just turned the age of seventeen and was now far past the age that is accepted at the orphanages in London. Brought in eleven or twelve years before, I moved from orphanage to orphanage often being kicked out for stealing, fighting, or simply not getting work done. Could you blame a girl though, really? An orphanage in the underbelly of London is absolutely no place for a thirteen-year-old girl. Begging on the street corner in more dirt than on the ground itself? These children were the unwanted dust bunnies of the world, all competing with each other for basic survival.

I remember the first time I ever stole, straight out of the room of the caretaker at the last orphanage I was at before I was out on my own. This one, some miss'us something or other, rather seedy lady, had some dream of sending us all off to seamstress houses and labor mills in hopes of the court sending her some money for our "living expenses". I never picked up on any of the skills she tried to force us to learn and before long I was being sent home from one of these "seamstress houses", only to receive a beating unlike any other. I remember her slamming a door and ordering me to "get that sorry butt back to the house tomorrow or it will be redder than you've ever seen it before!" By which I could've only assumed she meant "help yourself to more than half of my wallet, and catch the back of a train heading to the closest city possible."

Of course, if I had known that train was heading toward a city that spoke an entirely different language, I may have reconsidered. What was I thinking?

My back was now warm from sitting so close to the furnace and it had begun to dry along with the blouse under my dress. I continued to stare at myself in the stolen mirror, focused on a person beyond who I was looking at. I think I remember why I had wanted to come to Paris. I remembered a child, singing a sweet sad song in the midst's of a warm summers night that spoke of the house of our lady, a massive cathedral with tortured stained glass. Notre dame… something about a haven for loss souls, a sanctuary for the wandering and mislead. And of the angles who bless the very stones. A heaving cough from upstairs broke me out of my daydream. I quickly packed all the stolen items back into the canvas pouch and put it back under my skirt, tucking it into the top of my leggings and wrapping the ties around my thigh. I heard a metal trinket skid on the floor and looked down to find the antique ring. I cursed and stuffed it down my shirt in a second before wringing out the bottom of my dress and picking up my mop and bucket.


	2. Chapter One: Stolen

I felt like a junk yard as I stepped out of the Desmarias residence. It may have been due to the large roll of stolen junk strapped to my thigh. Or maybe it was the accidental grope Jacques threw in after a good two hours of watching me clean his house. Or maybe it was simply because my life was as dismal and grimey as the inside of my bucket. Either way, it wasn't raining anymore and I couldn't _wait _to go home. But first I had to make a stop at my favorite gypsy merchant's stand to sell the antiques and trinkets I had adopted to my skirt. I made a turn down the crooked cobblestone streets and into the market right near the town square, right at the feet of Notre Dame. "Our lady", ha. I live in Paris too and there is nothing _mine_ about her. I stared up at her massive towers, which punctured the cloudy sky silently. Something about her looked secretive but warm… like a soft whisper made close to your ear. I snapped out of my daydream, money was about to be made and I had to be careful not to be caught. The hem of my skirt was dragging brutally in the large puddles that filled the spaces between the cobblestone, so I picked it up and carried it in the hand that I wasn't carrying my bucket and brush in. As I walked, sunken eyes followed me from under the soaking wet canvas roofs of the merchant's stands. The market was fairly empty as it was near eight in the evening and a lousy day for bargaining. Even still, I could smell the hungry, wet souls of the people masked by the smell of freshly baked bread seeping from a nearby bakery. As it was too cold for wheat season, bread and fruit was expensive and most of the merchants got by selling odds and ends. Or stealing, in my case.

I approached the alley way and looked both ways down the market street before walking down it, if I had been caught or the gypsy merchant discovered we would both be dead on spot, basically. The coast was clear and I walked down the dark alley until I came to a doorway covered with a big canvas tarp. I opened it with my hand, skirt still closed inside it. Ducking my head down I entered and looked up and into the point of an extremely sharp dagger.

"Oh my." I said, eyes crossing at the point. My eyes went past and onto the face of an older man, skin dark and weathered, but eyes burning with passing fear. He sighed and put his dagger into his belt.

"It's just the English girl." He sounded disappointed. Sorry? I fully entered the small and pleasantly warm hideout. Stacks and stacks of crates full of stolen household items framed the room and at the back the man's wife and a younger lady sat on embroidered cushions smoking from a long tube extending from a strange vase looking thing. The room smelt of dust and… mango?

"Ah!" The old lady looked at me, her smile lines pressing into place as she revealed a gold tooth amongst many yellow and crooked ones. She looked at her friend. "This is the one I was telling you about, the English girl who risks her butt stealing from those pigs all day." Her laugh was raspy, she handed the strange and colorful tube to her friend who was sizing me up between narrowed eyes putting the tube to her mouth, inhaling. The old lady stood up and came towards me. I heard a bubbling coming from inside the strange vase and when her friend pulled it away from her mouth, she exhaled smoke.

"How did you do today?" I heard the old lady ask me but continued to stare at the vase.

"Well enough, I think." I frowned at the bubbling vase and reached into my skirt, pulling out the canvas case and placing it in the hand of the lady. Who I believe needs an introduction. Jaelle, a kind hearted merchant of the gypsy people who made her living selling stolen articles. Being too old and sick to do it herself, she hired me one day after watching me pickpocket a man for his purse without him even noticing. The old man who almost cut my eyes out when I walked in was Harman, her husband. Also a gypsy. He apparently was missing a toe, which is how you could spot him hobbling around the streets of Paris, probably why he also isn't a professional thief. I wasn't too sure who the other lady was who had given me no introduction but a cold look, but that was probably because I was more concerned with the strange looking vase than herself. Jaelle had laughed and taken the canvas pouch back to the cushions on the other side of the room, opening the ties and digging through the treasures happily. "Sorry, but what exactly is that thing?" I pointed at the vase, Harman who was sitting on a crate next to me like a gargoyle followed my finger to the bubbling vase. He smiled.

"That my dear, is a Hookah." His eye twinkled at the word.

"A what-kah?" I winced.

"Stupid girl. Listen the first time! He said a Hookah! From India. My friend, Nadya here brought it back as a gift. It is delicious." Jaelle returned her attention to the trinkets. I nodded and stared at the 'hookah'. I wanted so badly to try it, but I could tell from expression alone that Nadya definitely wouldn't have it. Unfortunatley, Harman caught on.

"Would you like to try?" he asked. I shook my head.

"No, that's quite alright thank you." I responded. Nadya hadn't taken her eyes off me and was now frowning and puffing out smoke. Jaelle looked up from the stolen items again and slurred something in Romany. Nadya coughed a little bit on her smoke and shouted something in Romany back. Jaelle and Nadya then carried out a two minute argument in their native tongue while I stood there pretending to be interested in a loose thread hanging from my dress. I finally looked up when I heard.  
"For the love of Christ! You and your Court of Miracles! I swear there's something in the air down there that's making you all blind and deaf, and _ignorant_." She spat beside herself when she said ignorant. Nadya's eyes were smoking just as much as the funny "hookah" vase had been. Nadya glared at me fiercely before turning back to Jaelle and yelling something again in Romany I couldn't understand. She then got up and stormed towards the door, which I was standing in front of. She tried to go around me but I moved to that side just as she did. She grunted in a high pitch squeal and pushed me by the shoulder into the wall. I slammed up against a crate and part of Harman, my head hitting the stone wall hard enough to hurt. "I may be old, but at least my principals aren't!" she yelled out the door to the silhouette exiting the room. Harman quickly poked his head out and looked down the alleyway. He sat back on his crate, wiping his forehead and sighing.  
"She's going to get herself killed with thoughts like that." He shook his head as he said it. Jaelle scoffed.  
"They all are! Them and that underground society, all those rules. Bah!" she also shook her head and picked up the antique ring, holding it up to the candle beside her.  
"I'm really sorry, I didn't mean to ruin your evening." I said, not sure if I meant it but happy that Nadya had left.  
"OH please. She's probably ashamed that we even hired you, being who you are. Our people are too proud and too scared, so they hide underground and only talk to themselves. At least you live in the real world." She laughed to herself. I frowned. These people sounded strange…  
"Oh, I won't tell." I whispered quietly. They both laughed heartily. Strange. I heard Jaelle continue to rummage through the junk and then stop, picking up the mirror and looking at it top to bottom before looking at the glass.  
"This one is worthless." She sighed, watching herself.  
"Really? It was my favorite." I said. She looked at me, slightly surprised. Then she smirked.  
"Do you want it?"  
"No, I'm alright."  
"ALRIGHT?" Jaelle laughed. "Of course you're Al-right. I asked if you wanted the mirror!" she laughed again.  
"Well. Ok…" I walked over and took it from her hand. "I only really stole it so you could sell it, I don't really know what I'm going to do with this." I frowned at myself in its antique pane.  
"Maybe you could do something about that big tangle of a mess on your head!" she laughed very hard, her smile lines nearly popping off her face. Harman also laughed and Nadya blushed a bit and giggled quietly. I laughed a bit, too, in spite of myself as I looked at my frizzy wet hair in the mirror and sighed, tucking it into a pocket in my apron. "I'll consider it a gift." I smiled at Jaelle. Who, admiring the stolen articles handed me back the canvas case filled with the money she paid me for my day's work.  
"HA!" was all she said. I smiled to myself and bid Harman a goodbye.  
"Same time tomorrow. Maybe this time you can keep the dagger in your pocket instead of between my eyes." I winked at Harman, who blushed, picked up my bucket and emerged from the flap quietly closing it behind me.


	3. Chapter Two: Our Lady

Before I had come to Paris all I had heard of were the evil gypsies and their evil ways. Stealing the noble children and holding them for ransom, tricking you out of your life savings and seducing the good and honest people into committing the devil's pleasures. However, upon arriving here, the only gypsy encounters I had were of a pleasant and business oriented nature. I guess I follow a similar set of morals as them, which is probably why I felt out of place amongst the hardworking citizens of Paris whose pockets and houses I ransacked for valuables. Oh well, we all got to keep warm. There was only a short walk from the market to my housing, which I spent deep in thought. Silently I glided through the dark streets like a shadow, the sound of my wet feet sloshing against the cobblestone and my bucket creaking in my hand. Occasionally I looked up in to an odd window of a passing flat, watching mothers tuck their children into bed or the flickering of candles set beside lovers holding each other. My housing was right on top of a tavern which by the time I got home was packing up for the night, sleepy people heading home with a bit more of a slur in their words than when they came, making picking up on what they were saying a bit more difficult.

I sloshed up the front stairs, dragging my bucket behind me, passing my neighbors flats. Most were silent but of course my landlady's at the end of the hall was bursting with hysteric giggling and the sound of bottles clinking. Unfortunately, as I went to put my key into the door to my flat my landlady's flew open. And there she stood in her night slip and housecoat, make up running down her face, laughing up a storm as she held a half empty bottle in her hand balancing a cigarette between two fingers.  
"BAYLEE!" she howled and then giggled insanely. I sighed and dropped my bucket.  
"Yes Mademoiselle?" She stumbled towards me as a man's thick French accent laughed something at her from insider her flat impatiently. She dug into her cleavage and pulled out a folded, slightly crumpled piece of paper.  
"This came for you." Her words were like cheap perfume. She held the paper out to me, the hand with the bottle and lit cigarette balancing on the wall. I stepped over my bucket and went to snatch it from her hand with two fingers but she withdrew it just out of my reach causing me to stumble. I looked up angrily, she was staring at the bulge in my apron pocket.  
"Qu'est-ce c'est?" she nodded to the pocket.  
"Nothing." I leaned to get the paper again. Her weary drunk eyes looked into mine and she narrowed her stare.  
"I swear to Notre Dame herself if you are hiding something from me I will kick your snobby English butt out of here so fast. Palace of Justice for you, one less snobby English whore for me." She swore something inaudible in French and laughed to herself unpleasantly, hiccupping in-between. I frowned back at her and grabbed the letter.  
"Goodnight, Miss." I said opening my flat door.  
"Yeah, yeah." She stumbled back to her door and slammed it. As I shut mine I heard another uproar of laughter coming from her room. I sighed and quickly got out of my soaking wet clothes and hung them on a small clothes line in my tiny room. It immediately felt better to be out of wet clothes and my bones sighed with relief when I changed into my light, dry nightgown and got into my warm, dry bed sheets. I lit a candle and picked up the paper that Mademoiselle Genevieve had given me. It was a notice from the agency that finds me cleaning work informing me that the Archdeacon needs some assistance in the Priests quarters at Notre Dame. I was also informed it would be free, as asking the church to pay for a cleaning service is a social no-no. I sighed heavily, hoping it would be my last one of the day, blew out my candle and fell asleep the moment my head hit the pillow.

I awoke that morning to the eighth toll of the bells of Notre Dame. Go figure. The sound is absolutely beautiful, I may argue it is one of the only things I actually like about Paris. It woke the city awake, though I felt the busy day ahead already stirring under me. I looked out the window as I got up and my bare feet hit the cold hardwood floor. It was cloudy, but dry, so I could only assume most of the population would take it as an opportunity to get outside. I was hoping the Merchants would buy some stuff off of Jaelle so my profitable crime profession could still be profitable and neither Jaelle nor myself would end up on the street or worse in jail. My work clothes were still a little damp from the day before and sent a chill up my spine when I put them back on. I wore my second pair of shoes as I simply can't work efficiently in wet shoes. God it's awful. Part of me really wanted to try hard today. I was actually quite happy I was chosen to work at the cathedral. I wasn't planning on stealing anything, but cleaning in a quiet place away from crying babies or drooling husbands sounded just fine with me. And besides, I had yet to visit any landmark in Paris.

I bounded down the stairs, passing by the landlady who stood in her nighty smoking a cigarette yelling at another resident, she turned and yelled something at me that I failed to catch either because it was in French or I simply didn't give a damn.

As I stepped out onto the street, the sun had actually managed to poke through the thick layer of clouds and shine down on my face for several moments which I enjoyed greatly. The hussle and bussle had just begun as people wheeled out their fruit carts and men and women were off to work. Conversation was everywhere though I could only understand the feeling behind it. A blacksmith was scolding his apprentice for something or other. The apprentice was almost bright red with embarrassment as I passed by and smiled a little. A chocolate shop was preparing its window display for Easter as a crowd of dirty street children licked their lips and pressed their faces against the glass and the shopkeeper inside shooed them away. I was so mesmerized by the sights and sounds of the city I was nowhere near looking where I was going and suddenly something slammed into me and knocked me onto my butt. I heard a couple of gasps and a few stifled giggles, I was frowning and staring up at a large metal… person?  
"Ah, Miss, I am so sorry I didn't see you there!" The language was as English as the accent, which was good as if it had been a French person I would've never been able to say this:  
"Of course you didn't see me there! Please watch where you're going!" He stuck out his hand to me, covered in armor, I realized it was a solider. He helped me onto my feet and I dusted myself off and then got a good look at him. He was a young man with a pale face, blonde hair and shocking blue eyes. He was younger than me, perhaps about fourteen which sort of surprised me. "Are you supposed to be a solider?" I asked. He smiled proudly and stuck his chest out though you couldn't tell as there wasn't much muscle under the heavy chest plate.  
"Yes M'am, I am indeed."  
"What in heavens are you doing in Paris? You're British, aren't you?"  
"Yes M'am I am indeed, I was transferred here just yesterday, came to see the city I did, me mum said I had to get 'cultured'." He smiled, a bit confused as if he had only just heard the _word_ yesterday. I smiled a little, defeated by the boy's kind nature.  
"Where are you headed, then?" I asked, dusting myself off once more and picking up my bucket.  
"Nowhere in particular, just came to see the market."  
"The least you can do is walk me to Notre Dame, I am going to be late as it is and haven't had a pleasant conversation in far too long."

He told me stories of his family back home and how he came to be a solider until we came to the steps of the great cathedral.  
"Well…" I began, but he interrupted me.  
"Aw, I'm sorry miss I spent this whole time gabbing about myself I haven't learned a thing about you." I opened my mouth to speak but stopped myself, thinking _What would you tell the boy? 'I'm an orphan who escaped to Paris to clean innocent people's homes, steal their expensive things and sell them to gypsies' ?! He may be a boy, but he is still a solider._ I laughed and shook my head.  
"I will have to tell you another time as I may get fired if I don't go now. What is your name?" Again, he smiled proudly and took a bow.  
"Roger Wood, miss. But all me lads just call me 'The Dodge'." I laughed again.  
"Well Roger the Dodger, I'm Baylee and I am going to be _very _late so I will have to see you around. Please."  
"Of course Miss, you owe me a story!" he smiled and walked away. All I could hear was his armor, too big for him clanking into the distance. It was nice to know at least _some _of the soldiers were pleasant. I snapped out of it just as the first bell of nine o'clock rang and I ran inside.

As I opened the heavy wood door to the cathedral a strange feeling came over me, as the wind from outside pushed the smells of the large building in on me. It smelled sacred and safe and very old, rich with history. It took me a minute to adjust, I think I just stood in the doorway gaping at the massive stained glass window at the very back of the cathedral, casting colorful lights onto the many rows of pews in front of it. The heavy door slammed shut and made a loud boom, causing the people who were in the pews praying to turn around and stare at me. I suddenly went still, my eyes going wide as my cheeks grew hot.  
"Hehe, sorry!" I said quietly. They all muttered in French and turned back around to continue praying. A heavy silence clung to every corner of the large room, whose ceilings practically went to the heavens themselves. All around were beautiful masterpieces of stained glass and candle lit vigils praying to various saints. I wish I had known the names of them, as they stared down at me gently and without judgment. Though I felt very welcome, I also felt a little disrespectful in terms of my appearance so I creased out my apron with my hands and put my long excuse of hair into a bun. Suddenly a little man in a priests robe came bustling out to me, seemingly frazzled. When he approached me he gained composure.  
"Hi there, please tell me you're the lady from the service." His gentle face pleaded, glistening with beads of sweat.  
"Yes, father." I replied. His face relaxed into a smile, though his brows remained a little pursed in a knit of worry.  
"Thank heavens. Right this way Mademoiselle…?" I realized he was waiting for a response. Being an orphan also came with not knowing your family name. So of course, I responded.  
"You can just call me Baylee." I said, a little embarrassed. The priest didn't seem to mind and ushered me in one direction, leading me by placing a hand gently on my back. It was nice to have such polite clients. I had always heard that the priests at Notre Dame were respectable and wise, genuinely concerned for the spiritual well being of the people of Paris. It was indeed a sanctuary, and I was glad for once that gossip was right. As we walked he spoke quietly but rapidly of things I was too far off daydreaming to really understand. I was too pre occupied taking in every square inch of the cathedral. We began walking up a winding and steep staircase surrounded by stain glass murals and though my bucket would have usually been heavy and awkward to carry I was far too fascinated to notice. We finally made our way to what could have been the most boring room of the entire building, if not city. He showed me to a very dirty and disorganized closet full of documents and ornaments and a large pile of disorganized clean laundry. He asked me, if I had time, if I could also scrub the steps that lead to the room. I dropped my bucket and looked around my surroundings. It may not have been the prettiest location but something about it was sacred, and motivated me to do the job well.

Two hours passed and the room had been organized to my liking quite well. The room, being further up and smaller than the rest of the church had become quite hot and my brow had been releasing tiny beads of sweat all while I worked. I was sitting on one of the steps, giving it a final scrub while huffing a little bit, drained from the work I had just done. From behind me in the room I heard a strange sound and turned around swiftly. The door to the closet I had spent most of the day cleaning was now open a crack and the sound had been of panicked shuffling. I frowned and stood up slowly, making my way to the closet slowly as not to disturb the silence that lay between myself and the mystery. I had always been a bit of a scaredy cat, though lately my fear had come from looking out for my own butt as I got myself deeper into a life of crime. Really I was just intrigued. I believed this to be the highest point in the cathedral so my imagination ran wild as to what could be in that room that I hadn't seen before. The highest point in the cathedral except for—the bell tower! I reached my hand out to the doorknob but something _actually _startled me. A clearing of the throat from directly behind me, causing me to turn and gasp. A different priest than the one who had let me in earlier stood on the steps and smiled a little.  
"I'm sorry dear child I didn't mean to scare you." He said warmly. Relief fell over me.  
"No harm done. Really." I gulped. The priest looked around the room.  
"Oh my. You certainly have turned the place around. Too bad we can't get you to do every inch of this place! It can be a real piece of work."  
"It's our pleasure, really. If you need any help whatsoever you can ask the agency for me, personally and I'm sure we could arrange something." I blurted out in some random overpowering moment of fatigue and generosity. He smiled humbly.  
"It's a pleasure to see someone take great pride in their work." He gestured down the stairs with an open hand.  
I smiled, sliding past him and making my way down the stairs once again admiring the craftsmanship on the stained glass.

Leaving Notre Dame was sort of a religious expirence on its own. I felt like I had just woke up from some comfortable daydream. As though I had been lost in someone's kind prayer for those two hours. Another series of the beautiful bells from the very top of the tower marked my departure and I took one last long look at the bell tower before walking down the steps and into the town square.

I was of course happy to have done the favor for the church. Lord knows I've never been inside of one, ever. I felt obliged, slightly. However, being in the lower class I was worried for the roof over my head and decided there would be a big enough crowd in the square to picket some pockets. The demon of mischief that lived in my head howled greedily and part of myself actually asked some part of my conscious for forgiveness just for today. I walked through town square until I once again came to the market. I wasn't surprised to see a large crowd standing next to a colorful caravan which was currently empty. But next to the caravan, the crowd had gathered around an old looking man playing sweet songs on the guitar, a graceful, dark, and flowing figure dancing and tapping a tambourine and a small goat skipping back and forth for the audience. Occasionally the graceful figure dancing would do some sort of acrobatics trick and the crowd would ooh and ahh.  
"Perfect." I said quietly and immersed myself in the crowd, the easiest way to pickpocket. There are many different more stealthy methods than the one I had chosen to use that day, as none of my materials were at my disposal. Perhaps, if I hadn't been so greedy. Or perhaps, if I had been more forgiving. Or perhaps, if I were just, for once, not stupid enough to dive in head first to a foolish, dangerous situation I wouldn't be here. But here is where I am.

Second trick is to be so focused on one thing, you almost separate yourself in two. While part of you is devoted to something in the opposite direction, the other part is controlling your hand which is snaking its way over to the person standing next to you. I didn't bother looking at the person, but I sensed it was a male and judging by his overcoat, he could spare a couple francs. You then remove the wallet so carefully, moving in time with their breathing pattern that they won't even notice—something didn't feel right. Usually it's leather, or velvet. And I can feel the pocket lining or the trim of the coat against the top of my hand. At this moment, I felt flesh. Warm flesh. And then I felt eyes on me, burning eyes. How I wish I hadn't looked over and into the dark, dark brown eyes of a man hidden by a large black cloak. Despite the deep hood of the cloak, I could see he was wearing a half mask, revealing his tightly pursed lips and angered eyes. It took me a moment to break the gaze but in an instant I realized we both had our hands in the same man's pocket. From there we both realized the man was probably about to notice that two strangers had their hands inside his pocket and we were now both looking out for ourselves. Instinct spoke, and neither of our hands let go of the purse.  
"Sir! This man is trying to steal your money!" I shouted. The man turned to the man in the cloak suddenly. I had just noticed the man I was attempting to pickpocket was a large lump of a man who was currently grabbing the cloaked man by the sides and lifting him up threateningly. Just enough time to grab his purse! I quickly reached out and pinched the wallet in a corner, feeling the crowd direct its attention towards the two men and away from myself. I heard the cloaked man say:  
"Of course not, I am but an old beggar, it was her!" As he said her the purse had slid into my grip and I turned swiftly to run. But the man had turned around and I was too deep in the crowd, who were all beginning to pay attention to our feud.  
"Um, excuse me, sorry miss…" I was trying to maneuver my way out of the crowd, who all scoffed and began nudging and pushing me back to the large man, still holding the cloaked man by the collar.  
"Look _she _has your purse, sir!" the cloaked man remarked. Everybody turned to look at me.  
"What? Are you really going to listen to that…" I frowned and stopped, staring at what was once the cloaked man but now was a skinny man in a jester's outfit with a large purple hat, tattered slightly around the brim complete with a yellow feather. Bells hung to every other edge of his tunic, the colors were theatrical. Chin length black hair jetted out and clung to his cinnamon brown face, or so the bottom half of it that the mask revealed. A black goatee also hugged what looked like would be a sharp chin as it met the deep grooves of cheekbones. He was strange looking, to say the least. Then I noticed the big golden hoop in his ear, the same that Harman and Jaelle both had. "Gypsy?" I said, outloud, without realizing it. The man in his hands glared at me with a piercing stare of pure hatred and I realized something bad was about to happen to both of us. Everyone turned their attention back to the previously cloaked man who was still suspended in the air by the large man holding him. A couple of ladies gasped when they saw it was a gypsy and pulled their children closer.  
"Why you…" he swore something in French. The gypsy broke his dark gaze towards me and focused it on the man who swung a hard punch right into his jaw. The gypsy took the hit and fell to the ground. I winced, that didn't look pretty. As the large man kicked the gypsy, who was unfairly less than half the man's size I took my opportunity to escape with the large man's purse in hand. I had managed to weave through about half of the crowd before I felt a firm grip on my arm and looked up into the blue eyes of Roger, the soldier I had met that day. He frowned at me, opening his mouth to say something until he realized who I was.  
"Baylee…" he said, dazed. I frowned back at him, my eyes begging him to let me go as soon as possible. Part of me hurt inside when he looked down at the purse clenched in my hand and looked away. He let go of my arm and continued to frown as if he were working it out in his head. "But…" he stuttered. A much bigger and angry looking guard came up behind him. The guard looked at me and then at the purse in my hand and then the gentleman who I had taken the wallet from in the first place.  
"Good work." The guard chuckled.


End file.
